


the scars on your heart are still mine

by mwildsides



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Restraints, bottom!Dean, forgot that too, how could I forget incest!, just a little it's only a belt, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: Maybe Sam is jealous. Maybe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this coming from my recent rewatch of the series, and I just. could not help it apparently. this is all just filth too by the way.

They haven’t argued like this since dad was alive—and here Dean thought things were going to be all hunky-dory between them now that he was back. But here they were, angels, demons, and the fuckin’ apocalypse. 

“ - because he said so, Dean! You just, trust him now, what, because he pulled you outta the pit?”

Dean didn’t think it was that unbelievable, but apparently Sam, the boy who always wanted to believe in angels, didn’t trust a real life feathered bastard even when it brought his brother back from the depths of hell. 

He pauses, and narrows his eyes at Sam, who’s sitting on the shitty motel couch beneath the window. It’s cold out, and his cheeks are pink from the frigid night. 

“This from the guy who’s closest confidant is a demon,” he snaps, and of course Sam’s whole expression, his lips, his jaw, everything goes tight before he looks away from Dean. 

“Ruby’s been tried and tested…” He says it under his breath, one of those angry mumbles of his that just make him sound like a fuckin’ kid again. Dean sighs. His kid brother. 

“Yeah? So, so him pulling me back, that’s not enough. Or, even sending me back to save mom, or, not killing me or Bobby, none of that’s enough for you, mister ‘I pray every night’.”  
Sam's nose and lip twitch in that way that Dean knows too well, that he’s got his brother there, got him pinned. Now, that never meant Sam would admit he was wrong and Dean was right, but they both knew better. It’s a tell Sam has, especially when he’s angry. 

“I’m just saying a little caution - “

The irony is just. Disgusting. 

“Sam,” Dean snaps finally, raises his voice too. Sometimes he regrets that Sam shuts right up when he raises his voice too much, when Dean really snaps at him. But he files that away for later, just one more of many things. 

“What is it, really,” he asks, rising from where he sat at the table, strewn with research, “about this whole deal? You’re usually the one who wants to care and share, so how about it, Sammy.”  
Dean walks to the end of the bed closest to Sam, and watches his brother, watches him…squirm. His jaw is taught and his eyes keep moving from the apparently riveting wall paper to the book held open in one hand. As fidgety as Sam ever gets. 

“Your shoulder,” he says, very nearly to himself, and definitely not bothering to look at Dean. 

“My - what? Come again?” He takes another step toward Sam, eyebrows raised in thorough confusion. 

“Your shoulder, Dean,” Sam finally takes the initiative to raise his voice, “he left his mark on you.” 

And things grind to a halt there, but mostly because Dean is too confused to say anything for a while. Like a long while, but Sam just leaves him hanging, glancing up every now and again like he’s checking to see if Dean is still there. 

“Sam what…what are you talking about?” 

“Jesus Dean, are you deaf??” 

And boy, when Sam gets going he gets going. He snaps the book closed, only to toss it aside before he shoots up, quick as a cat, almost squared up like he wants to hit Dean. 

“No I’m not deaf, I just don’t fuckin’ get it Sam! What’s - I mean - “

Sam takes a step closer, steps in till Dean’s within reach. 

“It’s his - his handprint, what’s there to be confused about?? You - god, how can you not get it…” He sighs heavy, but now he softens around the edges, which makes Dean feel a little better. Lets him relax, even though he’s not expecting Sam to move into his space. 

It’s a little unexpected. They haven’t…they haven’t talked about this, let alone…hell they’ve barely even touched each other since Dean came back, but. It’d be a lie if he said he wasn’t glad. He didn’t want to have to talk about this, he wanted this…them to be the same, if nothing else. 

“Sam,” Dean says, too quiet, and a little too vulnerable for his liking, but he always was that way with Sam, couldn’t help it. Like people have said time and time again, it’s his weakness. 

“I don’t…I just don’t like seeing it, alright? It’s stupid and doesn’t make any sense, I guess, but…I don’t know.” He shrugs in that shy way he has, as if Sam has ever been shy with him. Then again, things were a bit different now, like that puzzle piece that looks and feels like it should fit, but doesn’t, apparently. 

“So, what,” Dean frowns and shrugs, “you want me to keep my shirt on 24/7 now?” 

Sam rolls his eyes, and his shoulders slump, a hand coming up to push through his hair like he’s already exhausted with Dean. 

“No, I’m not - it’s not like you can do anything about it,” he tells his brother, and now he sounds normal, as if they’re just talking about a job or. Literally anything else. “Guess…guess I’m just jealous.” 

That bit Sam says with his head turned away from Dean, and quiet enough that he almost misses it, which is of course what Sam would have wanted—if Dean didn’t have “ears like a hawk”. 

“Jealous,” he deadpans, expression so slack with surprise his mouth hangs a little open, “you’re jealous. Of Castiel.” 

“I - I mean - no, when you put it like that, Dean, god just - “ 

A smile spreads slowly over Dean’s lips, and he fights it only for Sam’s sake. 

“I get it Sammy,” he starts quietly, and moves close, one foot between both of Sam’s, and till they’re nearly nose to nose, “I came back with none’a my old scars, and a big ole handprint on my shoulder. And you feel threatened.” 

Sam goes all hard again like he’s spoiling for a fight, only Dean knows it’s different right now. Like fight or flight only…fuck or flight. Sorta. 

“That’s not it - “ 

“Make your move then, Sam. I’ve been waitin’ for it.” 

Those puppy dog eyes widen, Sam’s mouth threatening a smirk if only he weren’t too unsure to show it, and Dean wants to slap a kiss on those stupid lips, let him know it’s okay, they can go back to this, why’s he so intrepid? But then again, he had been too, hadn’t he - 

It’s not really the same brand of rough Sam has always been, when he grabs Dean’s face to slide their mouths together, open and sloppy. No, it’s…demanding, hungry maybe, but not the desperate, you’re-going-to-hell-in-a-month mouth fucking Dean had gotten used to. This has a taste of an earlier time, when Sam was a college kid and he was eager for it, though he didn’t realize it then. 

Possessive. That’s what this is, and the corners of Dean’s lips tick up even though they’re otherwise occupied. 

“He’s not a threat to me,” Sam murmurs when he withdraws, but only enough to get the words out--Dean can feel Sam’s lips move against his, slick with spit. It drives a shudder like a railroad spike down through Dean’s spine, white hot iron, that has him pressing close to Sam to feel his heat.  
He’s more muscular now, Dean had noticed. Noticed like, the second that hotel door swung wide to reveal his brother--Sam was thicker through the shoulders, through the arms. He’s not smooth and sinewy now, but hard carved, Dean just keeps thinking thicker, and god he hasn’t been so fucking turned on in years.

For some reason, he hadn’t put hands on Sam immediately, but instead waits for just a moment until one of Sam’s big, warm hands slides to the back of his neck and presses in hard. Like a button it triggers a moan from Dean, and he has to steady himself with hands on Sam’s sides. 

When the kiss breaks Dean’s panting like a marathon runner, a little dazed as Sam shifts to rest against him, lips at Dean’s ear. 

“You’re still so easy.” It’s smug, and dark, and Dean huffs a laugh. 

“Yeah well. Don’t remember the last time I got laid.” He doesn’t mention that it’s because time in hell was different than time on earth. 

“You were under four months, Dean,” Sam says as he leans back just a bit, and slides his hands into the button-up Dean has over his t-shirt. 

“Felt like longer,” he replies, and hopes the tremor in his voice sounds like arousal. Telling by the half smirk Sam gives, it did. 

“Better not go off on me too quick then.” His hands drop to Dean’s belt. 

“Hey, I can’t make you any promises Sammy. But maybe you get to go a few rounds tonight if you’re lucky.” Dean puts on his best face, and he’s not faking, exactly, he just. Needs a second to put his thoughts back into place. 

Back. Alive. Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam…

He swallows, watching his belt snap out of its loops, then Sam wrapping the worn leather around one fist, and jesus christ, Dean is so fucking hard he can almost feel every god damn tooth of his zipper pressing against his dick. 

Sam tips his chin up, nodding at the bed behind them. “Get on the bed.” It’s authoritative, and Dean’s knees feel like warm jelly, too weak to move even though he does with a shaky breath. 

It’s his bed, of course, unmade with the tacky duvet pushed almost all the way down to the foot and the sheets a tangled mess like he’d already gotten fucked on them instead of just having nightmares. But that’s far from his mind as he lays down, pushing a pillow beneath his head, and tucking both hands behind his head as casual as ever. 

He doesn’t expect Sam to toss the wound up belt on the bed, but it lands next to Dean’s leg, and his stomach does a wild, flipping jump of excitement, before he’s distracted by the sight of Sam toeing out of his boots. The undressing stops there, however, and Sam gets a knee up on the bed next to Dean’s hip. 

“Gimme your hands,” he says in that same low tone he used when he told Dean to get on the bed. 

“You gonna give me a safeword there, Sammy?” Dean quips, even though he offers his hands, palms up like he’s begging for something. No, that’ll probably come later. 

“Do you want one?” Sam’s expression is more amused than anything as he picks up the belt, and starts to loop it careful around Dean’s wrists. 

“Guess that depends what else you plan on doing, doesn’t it,” Dean replies, trying to keep teasing, but it is near impossible when he’s watching Sam’s hands, watching Sam tie him up, restrain him. He swallows. 

“I was just planning on fucking you,” and god dammit, Sam’s tone is light and too casual when he says that, but Dean imagines he meant to do that, “unless you’ve got other ideas.”

Dean just shakes his head. 

“Good.” 

If Sam so much as breathed on his dick right now, Dean is pretty sure he’d pop off. 

When the belt is holding his wrists together good and taut, but not enough to cut off the blood flow, Dean rests his hands on his stomach, snatching back a whine when Sam gets up off the bed in favor of rummaging in his bags. Logically Dean knows it’s for lube, for the usual, but he’s still...not happy about it, dammit, he wants Sam. Wants Sam to get on with it, wants Sam’s fingers in him, wants Sam’s tongue in his mouth, teeth on his lips. 

With a shuddering sigh, Dean presses a hand against his crotch just...just to take the edge off or something, and only when the bed dips again does he realize he’d had his eyes closed. He looks over to see Sam grinning at him like the cat that got the cream, the smug bastard. 

“What’re you smirking at?” Dean tries to snap, but the sharpness is lost a little. Sam just chuckles at him and reaches over, hooking a finger into the loops of belt he’s made, so he can lift Dean’s hands up over his head. He doesn’t say it, but there’s the implication that they should stay there. 

“You’ve got it bad Dean.” And that’s pity in his smile, maybe it’s just him teasing, but it’s infuriating, hot and infuriating. 

“Jesus, just put me out of my misery, Sam,” Dean says, making a show of tossing his head and rolling his eyes, which seems to be enough of a come on, because then Sam is swinging a long leg over Dean’s waist to straddle him. 

“Relax, Dean,” he says quietly, shimmying down just enough so he can spread a hand over Dean’s crotch where the denim is pulling tight across his dick. Dean can’t help the little hitch in his hips that digs for more of that feeling, and miraculously, Sam lets him. 

It’s fleeting, of course, because then Sam’s hands are at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and up, over Dean’s head to where it gets caught on his bound hands. That’s obnoxious, but of course that’s what Sam is counting on, probably. Dean grunts unhappily. 

But Sam soothes the annoyance with the span of his hands across Dean’s stomach, and with a grounding kiss. It makes Sam lean over him, spreads his weight out over Dean, and that, god, that is nearly better than anything because Sam surrounds him that way. It’s a relief, the weight pressing him into the mattress, familiar, warm, comforting. Dean hopes the whimper he lets slip into the kiss gets lost in the slick sounds of it, of fabric and skin, quiet as they are. 

Sam gently takes Dean’s lip between his teeth and pulls, but there’s nothing aggressive in the action, just a good drag of teeth and the swipe of tongue that soothes it. The thumb that rubs over his nipple makes Dean realize that he’s not annoyed at being tied up because he wants to touch himself, but annoyed because he wants to touch Sam. He wants to reciprocate, god dammit. 

“Sam untie me,” he breathes in the pause between kisses, before he’s quieted again, “lemme...lemme touch you, c’mon.” 

“Yeah, yeah, eventually,” Sam breathes, his lips sliding to the rough edge of Dean’s jaw, where he bites and bites, till he reaches an earlobe. That has always given Dean goosebumps, and this time is absolutely no exception--he even tilts his head toward Sam so they’re nearly cheek to cheek, but Sam nudges him back, kisses him complacent again. 

Thankfully, however, it doesn’t take much more of that to get Sam rolling his hips against Dean, obviously as hungry for the friction as his brother, which is just excellent, save for the fact that Dean...Dean is definitely going to come in his pants of Sam keeps it up. 

“Sam,” he sighs, because he’s full on panting for it now, delightfully out of breath, “Stop, Sam, ‘m gonna come.” 

“Good,” is Sam’s too-quick reply. His hips shift again, pushing hard into Dean enough to make him groan like it hurts, and Sam keeps that up, in short little thrusts of his hips. 

“Come on, Sam,” Dean laments, expression twisting into something truly agonized, because he doesn’t want to come yet, honestly, he just - “like coming with you inside’a me better.” And it’s not a lie, as much as he enjoys this. Feeling Sam thick inside him, spreading him wide, well there’s just...not anything better, is there? 

It’s like a cold beer on a hot day. It’s good when it’s not either of those things, but the best when it is. 

That much seems to get to Sam, if the expression on his face is anything to go by--a little bewildered, caught off guard certainly, but he shakes his head and keeps on. 

“I like when you come first,” he says, voice soft and honest. Dean, however, just grumbles and flexes his hands into fists. 

“Fine,” he mumbles through grit teeth, because he’s there, the pressure and the rhythm is good, it’s perfect, and he’s there. 

And normally he’d be digging his fingers into Sam wherever he could manage, pulling his hair or kneading at his shoulders, but now he’s left with nothing, just arching into what Sam’s giving him as it hits him. His face twists up, eyes scrunching closed because he’s never been able to help it, he just goes all tight and makes a fucking mess of his boxers. 

Sam lets up for the aftershocks, instead reaching a palm between them to rub Dean through it, watching his face all the while in a way that would be unsettling if Dean hadn’t gotten used to it decades ago. 

When the shivers and shocks subside, Dean’s head feels a little clearer. He sighs and opens his eyes to see Sam just smiling at him, he sags, shaking his head. 

“You happy now?” Dean cocks an eyebrow, and wiggles his hips. He’s never liked the sticky-warm feeling of jizz in fabric stuck to his oversensitive dick, but now it’s...not awful. 

“I know you are,” Sam retorts like he’s telling Dean “I told you so”. 

Dean just glares at him, though Sam incredibly doesn’t take as much time to gloat, in favor of sitting up so he can get at the button and zip of his brother’s jeans. That diverts Dean’s attention pretty well, because finally Sam’s going to get on with the Main Event, so he sighs happily, and closes his eyes for a bit as Sam tugs down his jeans and boxers. 

“You gonna let me go for this part?” 

“Yeah, probably,” Sam says conversationally, and then there’s the unmistakable heat of tongue on Dean’s cock. 

He flinches hard, nearly kneeing Sam in the ribs because again, oversensitivity, and that is way too much, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, Sam just goes on, slides his mouth over the tip of Dean’s soft dick to lick him clean. 

It’s the best kind of torture, really, and Dean grits his teeth so hard it hurts, fingers curling white-knuckled into his palms. 

“Too much - too much, Sammy,” he pants out desperately, bringing his hands down to Sam’s head and..oh...he can do that. It’s something just to get his fingers in Sam’s hair, even if the shirt hanging around his wrists is a little awkward. 

Sam, apparently gone deaf, takes Dean in further, then eases back, but it’s still excruciating because he sucks, and sucks hard. 

“Fuck, Sam…” Dean is thankful when Sam leaves off in favor of nuzzling Dean, smearing come on his mouth and cheek, which is just. Just peachy, and as much as he likes holding on to Sam’s hair, Dean likes to watch better. He lifts his hands again, and instead settles them under his head, which props him up just enough to look down and meet Sam’s eyes. 

It’s unsettling, and makes his cock stir again just a little. 

The thought of you sick fuck, that’s your little brother is a fleeting one, and doesn’t affect him the way it used to. Now it just seems perfunctory, yeah yeah whatever, still looks good with my come on his face. 

Dean’s just grateful that thought doesn’t have dad’s voice anymore. That was hard to ignore. 

But they’ve done this enough that they’re both basically guilt free. They’ve angsted and talked and whined about it for years, but now they can just fuck and be happy about it. Which--

Seeming satisfied with his clean up job, Sam sits back on his haunches so he can pull off what remains of Dean’s clothes, and once those are gone, he waves his hand. 

“Alright,” he says, and it takes Dean’s hazy brain a moment before he gives Sam his bound hands. 

A vengeful sort of relief takes him when his hands are free, so Dean pushes himself up until he can grab at Sam, dragging him in for a kiss and tearing at the buttons of his shirt. Sam would undoubtedly laugh, if they were just starting out, but judging by his response, he’s a little far gone for laughter now, which is just fine by Dean. 

A few buttons on Sam’s shirt pop from their threads, and Dean is certain he’ll hear about it later, but for now Sam is just as gung-ho about getting the thing off as Dean is, tearing it from his shoulders when all the buttons were free. He’s in high gear now, hungry for it, whereas Dean is just fine taking it as easy as Sam was when they started, so he pulls back, even though Sam chases it a little. 

“Not that fun, is it Sammy?” Dean teases, bumping their noses together. 

“Shut up.” Sam shoves at his shoulder, nearly toppling him over, but Dean just props himself on his hands, and smiles. Until Sam gets off the bed, at least. 

“Hey, I d- “ 

Sam undoes his jeans quicker than Dean’s ever seen him do, honestly, and pushes them right the hell off. Down to business, which would be funny if he weren’t standing there naked as the day he was born, and fucking glorious. 

And yeah he’s bulked up since Dean went under. 

“Shit.” Dean just looks at him, shaking his head, and Sam’s expression goes lax, all surprised like. 

“What?” Is that...is that self consciousness in his face? Christ. 

Dean smiles at him fondly, and shakes his head again as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Y’look good, Sammy.” 

That strokes Sam just right, Dean can tell, gets him all giddy and young again like it’s their first fuckin time, but that’s alright. Better than him being in a hurry, and like he’s gotta do it all. 

“C’mon tough guy.” Dean keeps his tone gentle, and nods Sam over, which earns him a lapful of his brother, all skin on skin. 

And god damn, Dean had missed this, missed Sam so bad it hurt. 

“Still got the tattoo though, huh?” Sam says, fitting his mouth over said tattoo, and Dean closes his eyes. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against Sam’s shoulder, “guess they thought it was important.” 

Sam sits back, but he doesn’t look Dean in the face, no, his attention is elsewhere, and Dean frowns for the moment it takes his brother to lay a hand on his shoulder. Over his burn scar.  
He looks over at Sam’s hand, and purses his lips. It covers the scar almost completely. 

“Would you look at that,” he mutters, the ghost of a grin on his lips, “yours is bigger than his. Feel better now?” 

That earns him the hardest glare Sam can manage at that point, before he’s using that hand to shove Dean back to the mattress, hard. 

“Shut up.” 

Moment broken thoroughly, Sam shifts back so he’s between Dean’s legs, slaps the inside of one with the back of his hand as he reaches for something else to his right. Lube, apparently, because Sam flicks the top open with a clack, and slicks up a few fingers clinically, doesn’t even warm it up before his fingers are at Dean. 

“Jesus, Sam,” he hisses, squirming at the sensation and Sam isn’t even in yet, “where’s the romance?” 

“Excuse me if I cut to the chase,” Sam raises his eyebrows, and god he looks so casual even though he’s pressing a thick finger in, in, and it catches Dean, makes his eyes shut and everything else go pretty quiet. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” 

“I hate you,” Dean mutters, shifting his legs against the sheets restlessly. 

“Yeah yeah…” The smile in Sam’s voice is smug and obvious, but Dean’s got bigger things to worry about right now. “You’re tight, Dean.” Sam’s voice ticks lower, gets a little gravelly, and he punctuates the statement with a press of his fingers. Finger. 

“What part of four months in hell didn’t you understand?” Dean grunts, licking his lips. “Can we stop talking now, that’d make this a little e- “ 

He winces a bit when Sam moves again, a heavy, hot weight when he drapes his body over Dean’s, but fuck it's perfect, that feeling. A good sort of trapped, Dean thinks, a place you'd never wanna wriggle free from, and yeah if he could, he'd spend most of his days under Sam like this. He'd never say that out loud, but something in him is pretty sure Sam knows.

The kiss he gives Dean feels like he does. Like he knows, and would stay too if they could. Since they can't Sam drives deep, with tongue and finger, and because he’s fraying at the edges now too, rolls his hips to slide his cock through what's left of the mess Dean made of himself. 

“Gimme another, Sam,” Dean mutters into Sam’s mouth, and gets his hands on his brother proper, a hand in that thick brown hair of his, draping the other arm over Sam’s shoulders. They're thick too. 

“Thought you said no talking.” 

But true to form Sam does what he's told, and presses in with a second finger, which--god damn it's a sting and a stretch, but Dean muffles whatever sound he might have made against Sam’s mouth. It hurts in an achey kind of way, tight pressure, but if there's one thing Dean doesn't mind, and hell, even likes on occasion, it's pain. And anyway, it's lead up to the big show.

Sam curls his fingers, to boot, and everything is great.

Dean shudders, an involuntary, full body thing that would be embarrassing if Sam took a breath to notice, but he's happy mouthing his way down Dean’s neck. He kisses Dean there like he does his mouth, only now he can suck, biting too until it's genuinely fucking painful, and is sure to bruise. 

He sits back for a moment, eyes wide and unfocused and a little wild as he thumbs over his handiwork, and Dean really ought to send Castile a card. A gift basket, hell, he owes the guy--angel--a million and one things he loves, probably, for bringing Dean back to this. Godly purpose or not, Dean gets this again, gets to see Sammy all keyed up and happier for it, loose and happy and easy like the world isn't crumbling around them. 

The look on his face must give Dean away, because Sam pauses everything and frowns at him.

“What?” He even starts to draw back, but Dean clamps his legs around Sam’s waist, and shakes his head.

“Don't - nothing - fine I just uh…” Was thinking how spectacularly beautiful you are and just how desperately I'm in love with you! 

No. Sam knows all that. 

“You...sure?” Sam cocks an eyebrow at him, and Dean has to fight off a smile. So concerned

“Yeah Sam. Let's get this show on the road.” 

And boy, Sam does, doesn't he. Works at Dean like he's a case to be solved, like a puzzle he's known the answer to for years now, but just does it cause man, is it fun. He honestly makes prep just as good as the rest, taking his sweet time and making sure he's got Dean good and hard again before he sits back on his haunches to retrieve the lube again.

Sam’s worked up a bit of a sweat with all his handiwork, and Jesus Mary and Joseph, but it makes him look fan-fucking-tastic when he reaches down to slick up his cock, working his hand over himself, maybe one too many times. 

“Sam,” Dean pants, because he’d come up with something witty and biting, tell Sammy to get on with it, but he's a little far gone for that now. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, and falls forward a bit to plant a fist on the bed while he lines up. Dean gets a leg around Sam’s waist like he can pull him inside, but Sam stops.

“C’mon don't hold your breath,” he mutters, looking up at Dean from beneath a hunk of hair that's fallen in his face. 

When Dean sighs in utter exasperation, because really, Sam takes that opportunity and presses forward, in, in with that thick cock of his, and Dean draws up short. Goes tense all over, which isn't good, but shit, Sam is hot right down there and velvet smooth, seems to go on forever before the tip of his dick slips in. Sam’s eyes shut and his mouth falls open, all shocked and intrepid even as he leans a hand up over Dean’s shoulder for leverage. It lets him redistribute his weight, put it all in his hips when he grinds forward all slick with lube and just perfect.

Dean knows what he looks like when he fucks, he can feel it. His expression crumples like he's gonna cry, which...has happened on occasion, but. He knows he looks hurt, mouth open like he wants to tell Sam to stop but god is it the opposite. This little moment hanging here, it's so fucking sweet, because Dean can just revel in it, revel in the heat of Sam in and above him and know he's in for one hell of a ride. 

He swallows hard, and reaches up to get a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, because he looks like he's somewhere else.

“Sammy, hey,” he mutters, drawing Sam down, close, till they're plastered together knee to chest. “Cmon. Give it to me. Wanna feel it in my bones.” 

Dean doesn't really know what it is exactly, Sam's dick, maybe, or something...emotionally, but either way Sam nods. So good. He's so, so good. Dean kisses him and tells him so, and Sam bottoms out with an easy shift of his hips. 

Four months feels a lot longer here, too. Sam feels so deep up inside that Dean swears he can feel it in his lungs, can barely breathe, and it's so good. God it's good to feel this full again. 

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is unsteady, the muscle in his jaw twitching and Dean can feel he's shaking all over. 

“‘S alright,” he says, almost out of habit. He guides Sam a little, gets a handful of his ass and digs his fingers in while he mouths at Sam’s jaw, his chin, and clenches deliberately around his brother’s dick. 

Sam's always needed a beat, needed to hang there for a second before he charged in, and Dean of course always gave him his head, as it were. When he comes back to himself, he catches Dean up in a messy, deep kiss, and hitches a leg around his waist for leverage. 

And for the fact that Sam just loves spreading Dean all wide like he wants to split Dean open on his dick. 

The first shift back has that achey, deep sort of hurt, and Dean sighs, his fingers slipping in sweat where they've got a grip on Sam’s ass. 

“Fuck,” Sam slurs into Dean’s lips, letting his hips stutter on the in thrust, but there's still force enough behind it to push Dean up the bed. Pushes a groan out of him too, helpless and just so ecstatic with it. 

Sammy doesn't take much more time or encouraging to set up a pace, brutal in force but slow in speed, a little too slow for Dean’s liking, even though it's obvious there's a reason behind it. Still, Dean tries to goad him into more, digs his ankles into the backs of Sam’s thighs, bites at his lips until he actually laughs, as if he isn't fucking sweating it. Just another day at the office for Sam Winchester. 

It's like there's a threshold that he can keep, one where he can still fuck into Dean hard enough to make his teeth clack, but apparently not enough to come just yet. Maybe it's a self control thing, who knows, but Dean….he's just greedy.

“Sam,” he pants, grabbing and pulling at his brother’s sweat-damp hair, “Sam, please.” 

That doesn't stop him, hell, he doesn't even stop gnawing a mark at the base of Dean’s neck until he’s satisfied, but only then does Sam resurface.

“You been gone a long time, Dean,” he sighs, his body stilling all over, muscles going lax, “just miss feeling you.” 

And god dammit, Dean knows, and that statement gets him all clammed up, puts a lump in his throat. 

“Dammit, Sammy,” he growls, tugging Sam in for a kiss just so he can close his eyes, keep the tears back cause he's been gone far longer than Sam knows. There's just too much. 

Except that seems to have broken something, coaxed Sam back to the home stretch, because he shifts his weight a big, hitches Dean’s legs up around his waist again, and starts in.

All Dean can do is hang on, groan into Sam’s mouth because god damn he's driving in at an angle that has Dean fucking flinching from the jolt of sensation. It gets him leaking, wet and messy and smearing all over his and Sam’s stomach, and the fact that his dick is trapped between them is almost worse. He wants to reach down and just jerk himself off, but he's got both palms flat on the headboard above him because otherwise, Sam would be ramming him into it at this point.

Stupid, but it's got the rickety old hotel bed frame banging against the wall. So cliche. 

Sam pants Dean’s name over and over and over, another one of his tells, so Dean holds him tight. He pushes back the little curls that have started to cling to the edges of Sam’s face with sweat, and pulls him in but not for a kiss. Sam presses his face into the heat of Dean’s neck, one hand gripping his left shoulder, the other near tearing into the meat of his thigh. 

“Dean...Dean ‘m gonna come, mmh - “ 

“Fuck,” Dean licks his lips and turns his face into Sam’s hair, and that's awkward and sweaty but smells so good, then tips his hips up. “Cmon Sammy.”

Sam’s usually quiet when he comes, and nothing has changed now. He lets out a short, strangled sort of cry and everything stutters to a halt, all of his muscles tense, and Dean can feel him come, feel his cock twitch and the hot pulse of it inside. Because he's selfish and he's an ass, he doesn't wait for Sam to finish before he's reaching between them to take his own dick in hand. Luckily Sam moves, he likes to go gentle through the aftershocks, which is plenty for Dean.

“Sam,” he sighs, then goes quiet, eyes squeezed closed as his cock jerks and spurts lazily onto his stomach. 

That draws a pained little sound from Sam, too sweet, and Dean settles for rutting up against Sam’s belly once he's all but drained. 

“Shit, Dean…” His words are muffled into the damp, heated skin of Dean’s neck, and just then he relaxes. Again like a flip was switched he unravels, goes all loose in the afterglow like he's melted.

Dean moves a little, wriggles and stretches his arms out so he doesn't get to feeling smothered, because they've had the heater up on high for the past two days, and it's hot now. Not to mention he's got a furnace on top of him, breathing like a bellows. 

But god damn, there's no other way he'd have it. 

He loses track of time then, and he wonders if he dozes off, Sam too, only coming to when Sam pushes up and off of him. 

Separating when you're sticky with sweat and come and saliva is never fun, because the air hits all the wet spots and makes em cold, but. Necessity or whatever. 

Sam sits back on his haunches again and grins, squeezing Dean’s thigh before he swings out of bed, all long, bronzed, muscled limbs, and offers Dean a hand.

“Welcome back man.” 

 

-

 

Sam doesn't expect to get anxious when Dean takes his turn in the shower. He gets back in bed--his bed, because Dean's is a mess of lube and come and sweat--turns off all but the bedside lamp, and starts to flick through channels on the tv. A flat screen with a new cable box, even though the rest of this fucking hotel is outdated. 

He starts flexing his toes under the covers and biting at his lips, then starts sliding the battery cover on the remote open then closed. He's about a half second away from chewing on his nails before Dean is done, the shower door clanging open as he steps out. They left the door open, because neither of them care, not while they shower at least. 

Spend your life in one room motels with someone, and privacy takes on different definitions. 

Sam acts as casual as possible when Dean walks out of the bathroom naked, doesn't watch his brother, and kicks back the covers so Dean can crawl in next to him. 

“Anything good on?” He asks, and his tone is all relaxed, easy and a little sleepy. Like it's not 24 degrees outside, like it's not the apocalypse.

“Just basic cable,” Sam says, wriggling down a few inches until he can throw an arm across Dean’s stomach, and lay his head there as well. 

Dean just hums and gets situated too, let's Sam move around just how he wants, which is with his ear to Dean's chest just so he can listen. 

It's dumb and cheesy, or would be to Dean, if Sam dared mention it, but hearing the heartbeat under his cheek is unreal. After four months of...misery, which is an understatement, feeling Dean alive, hearing his blood pump through his warm, living body is everything Sam needs right now.

Clean bed and showers aside, the room still reeks of sex and the shitty hotel heating, but Sam can't really tell, this close to Dean’s skin. No, it's right up close, all smooth and perfect again like when they were kids, when Sam looked at Dean the way his brother looked at Steve McQueen. Sam doesn't know which he prefers; mostly untouched, smooth and perfect and a little pale, or the Dean he had buried, all scarred up from their war of a life, when he could count each and every scar and remember what beast or burden put them there. Some he could even recount killing, wild with anger and vengeance after seeing Dean wounded.

“I can hear you thinking, cut it out,” Dean mutters, sounding half asleep even though he's been flipping incessantly through channels since he laid down. He puts a hand in Sam’s hair now, still a little damp with water, and fits his palm all along the curve of his baby brother’s skull.

“Sorry,” Sam replies, blinking away his reverie. He tries to disguise his nuzzling at Dean’s ribs as readjusting, but probably fails. 

“I know I just got broke outta the clink and all, but three times in one night might be a bit much there, Sammy,” says Dean, fingers curling in Sam's hair. But his hips shift. “Plus I'm gonna be feelin’ that till judgement day.” 

Sam actually breaks into a laugh, smothering it against Dean’s skin while his shoulders shake. 

“I'm not asking for another round, old man, don't you worry.” He pats Dean’s stomach affectionately, which earns him a soft smack upside the head.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, and Sam does, but not without a wry smile on his lips. 

And Dean being Dean, he can't stay quiet for long either. They're about half an episode in to some doctor show on TV when Dean pushes at Sam gently, but otherwise doesn't say anything immediately. 

“What?” He mutters, sitting up so his brother can do the same. Dean pauses where he sits at the edge of the bed, back to Sam. “What?” Sam asks again, a little anxious, because he can see Dean...thinking, and hopefully not in that way that means he’s going to say some shit, and then clam up because he doesn’t want to talk about his emotions or whatever. 

“Where’s that silver knife you had, that little one you pulled on me in the hotel room?” Dean asks as he stands up, glancing around the room like it’s in plain sight. 

Sam’s caught off guard by the question, so it takes him a second but--”It’s uh, it’s in my duffle, little zip pocket on the inside.” 

He watches Dean go to it, rummage around and rummage around, stark naked, until he comes up with the short-bladed knife. It’s relatively new, something Sam has kept tucked in his boot or in his jacket pocket as a last resort, because not only did their dad teach them to stay well armed, because being disarmed was easy, he taught them to be smart. 

Dean flips the blade up and catches it, handle out as he turns back to Sam. 

Offering. 

“Dean, what…” Sam is a little slow on the draw with this one, but he really doesn’t get it. 

“I’m not saying I didn’t like seeing you get all - “ Dean wiggles his shoulders, bobs his head, “bent out of shape about Cas’s mark but…” He’s got a funny smile on those full lips, not exactly mischievous, but not without intent either. 

“Seriously, Dean...what?”

“So make your mark, tough guy. “ 

Dean looks as serious as anything, and he waves the knife handle toward Sam again, but Sam is...well yeah he’s caught off guard. 

“Hold on...you - “ 

“I mean, make it small but. You’ll know it’s there. I’ll know. That’s enough, I figure so. Think of something good, Sammy.” 

It leaves Sam speechless, honestly, because he’d never exactly thought of that kind of thing. Sure he liked marking Dean all up, liked seeing what he’d done just under the collar of Dean’s shirt, and there was nothing better than watching some girl notice that, look between them, and end the conversation promptly. That was nice, but those faded, disappeared in a week or so. 

“Think maybe getting a tattoo might be easier?” Sam raises his eyebrows a bit, and smiles even as he sits up a little further to take the knife from his brother. Dean moves right after that, over to the dresser where a mini-fridge sits, chalk full of those cheap, tiny bottles of liquor. 

“Eh, that’s a whole big thing. Gotta decide what it’s gonna be, gotta tell some punk in a shop, pay for it. This is more our speed, dontcha think?” 

Well damned if he isn’t right, anyway. Sam shakes his head with a huffed laugh, and hefts the small blade in his hand, fingers moving over the hilt as Dean moves back to the bed. He sits up on the edge, half turned toward Sam with a bottle of gin or vodka in his hand. 

“Wh - uh. Where...do you want it?” He asks and swallows, thick. So maybe he’s...more on board with this than he would have thought. Like a lot more. 

“It’s your gig.” 

Sam pauses for a moment, but it’s like he had his mind made up centuries ago. 

“Fine, turn around.” He sits up a bit straighter, slides to the edge of the bed where Dean sits, so he’s just behind his big brother. 

“Said I wasn’t ready for round three yet, Sammy.” For his teasing, Dean’s voice is kinda thready, and yeah, Sam gets it. 

“Gimme that,” says Sam instead, taking the alcohol from Dean’s hand, and unscrewing the top. He pours a capful, pours it down the back of Dean’s neck. That makes him flinch, wriggle, but Sam leans down to put his mouth on Dean’s spine, just below his shoulder blades. Don’t want to make a mess of this bed too. 

“Jesus, Sam.” 

Dean can’t see, but Sam smiles. 

Unfortunately he’s had his fair share of this kind of thing over the last few months, not that he’ll tell Dean that, but. It comes in handy, sort of. Sam sets one hand on Dean’s shoulder, covering up the handprint, and oh the symbolism, or irony, or metaphor or...whatever, but Sam feels a thrill shudder through his stomach as he sets the knife point to Dean’s skin. 

It’s not unlike the crude initials he and Dean had carved into the Impala when they were kids, the ‘S’ Sam puts between his brother’s shoulders is simple, small. But Sam doesn’t really expect for it to do what it does to him, what seeing Dean’s blood does to him. It’s not the first time, but it’s different, and man, Sam is fucking cracked. He needs help he knows he does, but that’s a bit far off from now, something he can worry about later. 

Right now, he should probably not thumb up the little trail of blood trickling down Dean’s spine, shouldn’t bring it to his mouth, but here he is, doing it anyway. He’s in total tunnel vision stage, zoned in and deaf and dumb, but it passes relatively quickly at the copper tang of salt on his tongue. 

Back in the real world, Dean’s breathing is surprisingly steady, but Sam is panting like a dog again. 

“Um...I’ll...hold on,” he mutters, folding his long legs up so he can slide to the other side of the bed so Dean doesn’t see the mean halfy he’s sporting. Sam even stops to pull up his discarded underwear from earlier, and darts into the bathroom for a washcloth. 

He gets Dean cleaned up like it’s a bullet wound, he fusses and fusses some more which of course Dean grouses at him for. 

“There, there, I’m done,” Sam huffs, because Dean started to get fidgety. 

“Alright, thanks nurse Sammy,” he says with a heavy sigh, as he stands up and stretches. Sam only has the wherewithal to pull the covers up around his waist while Dean pulls clothes out of his own bag, his usual t-shirt and underwear. 

But he’s not any different, he’s just the same Dean as he always was, uncommonly unaffected, and Sam doesn’t know how to feel about that, really. So he just watches Dean round the end of the bed, tense until his brother slides back under the covers and slides close, of course, slinging one arm around Sam’s shoulders. 

Sam lets his head fall to the side, into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, and is a little dazed by the last half an hour. 

“You uh...you good?” Sam asks, trying not to sound too off. 

“Yeah, you?” 

In general, no, and especially no because of what he hasn’t told his brother. At the moment though?

“Couldn’t be better.”


End file.
